


at least, the sun is still alive

by ripplingtale



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ripplingtale/pseuds/ripplingtale
Summary: Why would you want to face this world alone?
Relationships: Gran/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	at least, the sun is still alive

**Author's Note:**

> Granblue Fantasy belongs to Cygames, and I, as a writer, didn't take any material profits from the content here. This is an old piece from March last year that I forgot to post. I'll still talk about Sandalphon's wings for a while.

The moment Sandalphon opened the infirmary’s door, he wished his bruised nerves were quick enough to close it again and turning back to the deck, where he could nurse his own injuries.

Yet, it was a mere wistful thinking, for first of all, he wasn’t quick enough to turn, and second on top, he physically couldn’t mend his own wounds even if he wanted to. Unless he has arms instead of wings on his back, unless he was a sentient snake with a first aid kit and potions

Gran grinned at the primarch, brown eyes hidden beneath eyelids and glasses. He gestured at Sandalphon to sat in front of him; the captain’s arms were larded with bandages, antiseptics. Sandalphon could taste yarrows, goldenrods, calendulas, Shao’s trademark scent lingered on the room, hanging between the walls, leaving trails down the hallway on the other side of the door.

“What are you today?” Sandalphon asked without teeth, deprived of reveries. The wooden stool creaked as he sat on it, back turned to the captain, wings bared alike fangs; all six of it. Citrines, alexandrite, moonstone, garnet, morganite, marred with blood and ashes, coals and embers. Sandalphon almost flinched when he felt careful fingers touched the base of his wings.

There was a smile in Gran’s answer. “Doctor.”

Sandalphon asked no more, because he knew better than questioning the singularity’s capabilities, both as a captain and as a doctor, or as a dancer, or as a warlock, or even as a lifeguard in the beach of Auguste. Questioning Gran was equal to questioning even more questions, and Sandalphon was too exhausted to debated his way out from a comical enigma that was the captain of Grandcypher.

It was Gran who rippled the silence. “Can I ask something?”

There was a beat of silence. One, two, three. Gran’s curiosity caressed Sandalphon’s skin; soft, wary. One, two, three. Should the archangel said no, Gran would back down. One, two, three. One, two, three. Sandalphon counted his missed chances, his lost expectations. There was no need to glance at the captain’s head to know what lighted his inquiry.

“You want to know how it feels?”

Sandalphon forgot whether Gran was there when Belial teared Sariel’s wings. He forgot whether _he_ was there when Belial teared Sariel’s wings. When was Sariel came to the picture, anyway? No one spoke about it after they came across an intersection and stepped into their own trails.

Gran’s fingers didn’t stop working.

“To have wings.”

“To have your wings teared.”

Their words were overlapping with each other albeit the exact opposite.

Sandalphon leaned just slightly to the back, the edges of his wings fluttered around the nonexistent boundaries he placed between him and Gran. Eyes turned to the ceilings, the primarch bid his breath, wondering whether Gran would correct his words or stood by his ground.

One, two, three, Sandalphon admitted his defeat before a second was up. He rested his gaze, tracing the pattern and lines that made Grandcypher, studying every nooks and arrows, crannies and corners. There was no dust in sight, no negligence nor ignorance, the scent of yarrows still clung to the walls as if it was always there from the start. “What do you want to know?”

Gran poked at a particularly nasty wound, earning him a flinch. “Having wings.”

Finally, Sandalphon pried his eyes from the ceilings only to stared at the sword strapped on his waist. Fingertips touched the pointed guard, the cold grip, the frosted pommel, as if his sword would tell him what to answer to the curious captain, what to say to the young man whom he pushed from the edge of an island once upon a time, what to speak to the singularity whose smile lighted a thousand stars, a dimmed moon, a redden sky.

How having wings felt like?

Sandalphon didn’t remember. Didn’t he had his wings when he first stepped into that garden? Didn’t he had his wings when he first soaring away from eden? Didn’t he had his wings when he watched the skies embraced Gran like the singularity was bound to be a fallen?

“It’s like everything else is the ground, and you don’t have to worry if you stumbled down.”

There was a sharp guilt in the way he murmured, because Sandalphon beat himself the most for his own sins; when he inflicted agony to the heaven, when he grasped Gran’s hand and pushed him down, when he snarled at Lucifer and strangled his daydreams. When this, and that, and this, and that, there was no end to the broken tragedy that was his own mind.

There was a sharp guilt in the way he murmured. Gran moved his stool and touched the primarch’s arm. Tentative palm, delicate fingers, there was a gash on Sandalphon’s knuckle, and the captain was determined to patch every ripped skin, every cracked vein. The blood was far long dried.

“What about having your wings teared?”

Sandalphon could string the easiest answer. He should; that having your wing teared was alike having a limb pulled by blades, daggers, swords. It wasn’t about how his power as a supreme primarch would fall apart, it wasn’t about how the wind suddenly sounded loud, wild, daunting. It wasn’t about how the world tethered to the edge, bringing his body down.

It was about how bones pulled from the flesh, how blood drizzled alike rain, storm, hailstorm. It was about how the pain was burning, dizzying. It was about how there was a spark on your back, needles, claws, fangs, grasping your veins, singed your flesh, swallowing you awake.

It was about how Sandalphon thought the world would end even if he stayed alive.

“It was like having your spine clawed out.”

He wanted to say more, that having your wings teared was not quite like death, but the end. That having your wings teared was not quite like an agony, but a sadistic mercy; it was like released from the weight of being stronger than anything else, released from the weight of knowing he only could save much, thereafter faced by the reality he wasn’t that strong to begin with.

However, Gran wouldn’t understand.

Or so he told himself.

Gran breathed, “Oh.”

Sandalphon watched Gran wounded bandages on his knuckles. Round and round and round and Gran patted his handiwork after he tied the ends together; the work of a child who learnt to stuck plasters all in his lonesome every time he stumbled into a rocky trail, cobblestones, sand and deserts. A gratitude touched the tip of Sandalphon’s tongue, believing it was done.

But before words dripped out, Gran gently pulled Sandalphon’s knuckle, up to his chin, down from his eyes, cold lips pressed against the bandages. The primarch blinked; one, two, three, wide-eyed.

“Oh, and this one, too.”

Gran roused from his seat, his presence hovered around Sandalphon’s wings. Again, lips pressed against the mended wounds. Gently, ardently, with so much mercy. As if Gran was the archangel, and Sandalphon was the singularity receiving a favor, a blessing, everything else in between.

His countenance was back on the sight with a smile. There was sun in his eyes, and it was alive.

“There, all fixed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading through the end.
> 
> I have no recollection what this piece is about since I wrote it back in March, I haven't write much (and especially San/Gran), but I do hope I can write more (and especially San/Gran) this year. I want to write something about the delicate fingers remark, but I also want to write more college AUs, so you will probably see both in a piece.
> 
> Thank you, Frey, for proofreading this and actually remember this piece.
> 
> You all probably will see me soon (I hope), but cheers anyway.  
> 


End file.
